


Spiderling, Mine

by KuriTheDweeb



Series: Second Chances 'verse [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Feels, Good Parent Wade Wilson, Mafia gang fighting, Miles Morales Needs a Hug, Obligatory family AU, Parent Wade Wilson, Second Chances 'verse, Spidey & his Spiderling, Team as Family, Vigilante training & games, Villains, begrudging friends, night nurse - Freeform, serious conversations, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriTheDweeb/pseuds/KuriTheDweeb
Summary: If the boy wanted to fight, Peter wouldn't stop him. He wouldn't win.NO noangrynoangry good spiderling good noNOfight(A.K.A Peter and Miles's story)
Relationships: Jefferson Davis & Miles Morales & Rio Morales, Matt Murdock & Miles Morales & Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Matt Murdock & Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Miles Morales & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds/Peter Parker
Series: Second Chances 'verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571710
Comments: 52
Kudos: 250





	1. Chapter 1

"Spider-Man?"

The kid was waiting, at the end of the alley.

The buzzing sparked up behind Peter's eyes when he looked at the kid, bouncing around his skull. Whatever dumb compass the Sense believed it was was pointing him to the kid. 

The kid flinched, clapping a hand over the base of his neck. Exactly where Peter's Spidey-Sense came on the worst. The buzzing faded. Small hands settled on his spine, counting each vertebrae and smoothing rough fingers over the base of his neck. It pleased the Sense, even though there was nothing there.

The kid was standing three feet away.

_save safe nofight spider helphelp SPIDERLING_

It clicked.

He and this Spidey needed to have a chat.

Peter jumped up on the fire escape, scrambling all the way up to the roof. Without looking down, he shot a web at the Spidey's shirt, flicking his wrist. The kid shrieked all the way up, stumbling and falling over when his feet hit the gravel. Peter was pacing by then, wearing circles deep into the gravel underfoot.

"Um - S-Spider-Man?" The kid stumbled to his feet, pulling off his costume mask. "My name is Miles M - "

He was so small. He was young, with dark eyes and frizzy curls. His skin was dark but he seemed pale, like he might throw up if he moved too fast. He couldn't have been older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Thirteen was pushing it.

For just a second Peter saw himself. He turned away, but not quick enough.

"I'm gonna stop you right here," Peter snapped. "No names, no faces, we are not doing this. What we are doing, is you explaning why you thought picking a fight with _seven guys_ , who were armed no less. Why would you pick a fight you know you can't win?"

_no noangrynoangry safe spider nofight spiderling ___

__"I think we both know."_ _

__Do not say that. Don't - that's not -_ _

__"I'm like you, Spider-Man. You feel it too, I know you do. I have these powers now, this responsibility to my home," Miles continued. "I have to - "_ _

__"Go home. What you have to do is go home, and forget you ever did anything like this."_ _

__When Peter turns back around, he thinks he shouldn't have. Miles has pulled his costume mask back on by now. He meets Peter's eyes, small hands curled into fists at his sides. His chin drops, shoulders tensing. Miles makes a soft noise that clearly meant he was displeased with Peter, looking up at him._ _

__"No."_ _

__"Kid - "_ _

__"No!" Miles snapped. "Do you know how much crap happens in New York? There's new big bads and turf wars and trafficking rings every day! Whenever one boss goes down three more try to take their place. Hawkeye's the only vigilante I've ever seen around actually patrolling, the police can't get to everything, and now that I have these powers I can do something about it!"_ _

__The Sense thrummed, pinching the nerves in Peter's neck._ _

__"What you can do is turn around and. Go. Home," Peter hissed, getting closer. Maybe he could use his height to intimidate him. "Tell your family you love them, and put this behind you."_ _

__"No, I'm not."_ _

__"Yes, you are."_ _

__"You expect me to just - turn my back?"_ _

__"Listen. I know it might sound like this great thing, to help the people, be a hero. That's total bull," Peter told him._ _

__He remembered thinking, oh it wouldn't be bad look at all the wandering vigilantes around._ _

__He remembered being that small. Being that fragile yet anything but. He remembered trying to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders alone for fear that it would break the bones of those he loved most. Only for it to crush his own, bit by bit, into dust._ _

__"You know fighting basics, sure, they won't help you. You will get hurt. I have had buildings dropped on me, family go missing, people I know die. I have been beaten, bruised, poisoned, I have have pieces of me carved out while I was fully concious. You can't get medical help, you can't tell anyone, you will risk dying every second you are out here. You have a life, school, stupid teenage shit like pimples to worry about. You have a place to go back to, with people who love and support you unconditionally. Think of everything you've ever done, and everything you haven't had the chance to try._ _

__"Go home."_ _

__Miles's skin lit up blue. Electric blue lines crept down his arms, pooling in his hands. If the boy wanted to fight, Peter wouldn't stop him. He wouldn't win._ _

___NO noangrynoangry good spiderling good noNOfight_ _ _

__"I said no," Miles finally ground out, arms shaking all the way up to his shoulders. "I didn't look for you to be talked down."_ _

__"But you knew it would happen. Why are you looking for me."_ _

__"I need training." Yeah, no shit. "I need _you_ to train me." Yeah, no._ _

__Miles was displeased with his answer. The Sense was displeased with his answer. Peter was not displeased with his answer, screw off Spidey-Sense._ _

__Miles stopped glowing blue, tension draining from his shoulders. The crease between his brows was visible through the mask. He struggled, for a moment, to find his words, "N - ahg - you - fine. If you won't help me, then I'll - I'll just. Wait here. I'll come back here, every night and train myself. I'll research and I'll train until I don't need you anymore."_ _

__Good luck with that. He could hear the police around the corner._ _

__"You do that, Miles. Try as hard as you want, it won't help you."_ _

__A couple cruisers pulled up beside the alley. Peter threw an arm back, blindly shooting a web at a taller building. And then he was gone._ _

__He would not help a boy kill himself so young._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter found himself talking and describing the situation in excruciating detail, barely pausing for breath, for nearly an hour. He wasn't interrupted once.
> 
> "You'll make something good from this, whatever _this_ turns out to be. You always do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter talks, Matt listens, and there is anxiety.

Not twenty minutes later, he was across the river and landed on Matt's roof.

Peter took off the mask, and just. 

Breathed.

He didn't know what to do. For once in his life, he didn't know how to do this or, or figure it out. He didn't know how to think his way around the problem and it was driving him insane because there was no way the kid would listen to him. What was he supposed to do, Miles was so young. He'd get hurt and think everything was his responsibility and crush himself under the weight of everything that would happen, he'd never get to be just an unsuspecting, uncaring kid ever again!

But hadn't Peter, too? 

He hadn't been all that much older than Miles when he started. He'd been such a determined little shit. He had training right off the bat and even beforehand and still got screwed over, what would happen to Miles? He didn't have Deadpool for a dad, or Matt and his freaky ninja cult training for a brother. And he was still trying to do this, probably with zero idea how his powers work, alone.

Miles was gonna get himself _killed_

What was he supposed to do?

Maybe. Maybe nothing. 

Maybe this was just a spur of the moment thing, and if Peter left him alone he'd be smart and quit. Yeah, he'd probably have enough trouble managing his power in normal life that he'd forget about this whole dumb idea. It'd be fine, right?

Who was he trying to fool.

Peter felt like screaming.

"You comin' in or what?" 

Matt and his freaky ninja cult training strikes again, standing in the door to roof access.

"Matt, when I became Spider-Man, how did you feel?"

Matt paused, brows knitting together. He reached for Peter's arm. "Come on, Peter," he said softly, pulling Peter into the apartment and shutting the door. Peter let him guide him down the stairs and to the couch. "What brought this on?"

Peter dragged his legs up onto the cushion, grabbing a yarn throw pillow to squish to his chest. He said, "I found someone like me, while I was in Brooklyn."

"There are plenty of people like you."

"No, I don't mean . . . He wasn't a mask, or like us," Peter told him. He pressed the side of his head to Matt's shoulder. "He was _like me_. Just a spiderling."

"Oh. Peter," Matt croons, running a hand through Peter's hair. He pressed a kiss to his temple. "When you became Spider-Man, you were so small. Didn't even come up to my shoulder, you were a scrawny 'lil thing growin' up. When I first heard about a new mask, a scrawny 'lil thing up in Queens, I thought the underside of this city would take one look at you and snap you in half."

Peter made a rumbling noise of disagreement from under his ribs. 

"I'll admit, I was scared. I watched you grow, and held your hand whenever you asked. You were fragile, and so clever, and stepped into other people's fights long before high school. Wade taught you how to hold your own and showed you how to use and defend from every weapon he could think of, and you never used this, you refused to. I was scared, because I thought when they came for you, you might not fight back hard enough."

If it was any other day, Peter might have laughed at that last part. 

Matt, of all people, scared over something so stupid. Even if Peter couldn't fight, Matt and Wade would never let him get hurt. And even if they couldn't be there, he would never leave them alone like that. So he sat close to his brother, at his side, and listened.

"But I was proud of you, too."

"Why?"

"Because you, dearest," Matt said softly, "are one of the most amazing people I have ever had the honor of knowing."

No, he wasn't. 

Matt was surrounded by amazing people, all the time. There was Wade, and Mr. Foggy and Ms. Page, and Gramps Fogwell, and his team. 

There were so many people on the list. He wasn't one of them.

"You are. Right at the top of the list. You're  
brilliant, and determined, and refuse to loose. You are a protector, and a martyr, and have always done what you believed is right. Whatever you're thinkin', if you think it's right, I'm on your side."

Peter squished his pillow a little tighter. "I don't know what I'm thinkin'," he admitted, barely a whisper. "I don't know what to do."

"Tell me about him."

Peter felt like crying. 

He burrowed as close as he could, his head tucked under Matt's chin and Matt's arm across his shoulders, running fingers through Peter's mess of loose curls. Matt held his hand whenever he asked, and he couldn't think of a time he needed it more than right now. Peter found himself talking and describing the situation in excruciating detail, barely pausing for breath, for nearly an hour. He wasn't interrupted once.

"He just pulled his crappy dollar-store Spider-Man mask off the second we were alone, tried to give me his name right off the bat. I could have killed 'im eleven ways before he even would've thought I could be trouble for him. I could ruin his life six ways from Sunday, right now. I found him trying to face off against seven guys three times his size, unarmed and with no one to back 'im up. And he didn't even try to retreat, at all! It was reckless and stupid and . . . And."

"And totally something you would do," Matt provided.

" _Yes!_ " Peter hissed. "And that's the problem."

"You think he'll do the same thing you did, the Atlas thing."

Was it think, or know, Peter wondered somewhere deep down in the pit of his stomach. His lungs ached.

"It's late. Why don't you turn that brain of yours off for now, stay the night and swing by the office sometime tomorrow. There's no need to decide anythin' now," Matt suggested, ever the smart people-person of the family.

"Okay."

"Okay." Matt ruffled his hair, heading back to his room. "Your stuff's in the same place as always, feel free to steal a hoodie."

Peter felt lighter and heavier at the same time. His chest was lighter, he had the room and safety to breathe deeper. His shoulders were heavier, he was weighted down by what all this ranting was making him realize.

He didn't know if he could do this.

"Peter?"

He focused back on his brother, standing with a hand on the sliding door they both knew he wasn't going to close.

"Whatever you do end up deciding," he said, "I'm right behind you." 

How could he be so sure Peter would do the right thing? What if he chose wrong, or he chose what was right at the beginning but not in the long run or didn't choose and that was worse than any other option? How could he be so positive, how could he know one-hundred percent that this would turn out alright. Peter was -

"You'll make something good from this, whatever _this_ turns out to be. You always do."

Oh. That was how.

"Thanks, Matty."

"Anytime, kiddo."

Peter counted the number of stitches in the yarn pillow he accidentally undid over the years. The billboard caught his eye, painting landscapes of pure color with no real shape across the room. It was advertising a perfume at the moment, with purples and blues and browns smoothing over each other and dancing on the inside of the glass panes.

In fresh clothes, he laid himself out on the floor between the couch and the counter. Lifted his chin just a little to be able to see the billboard through the windows, pillow once again wrapped up in his arms. He picked at the soft yarn loops, eyes flitting back and forth across every edge and scratch on ever individual pane.

He lay there, bathed in the shattered mosaic of phantom words, and thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the answer is . . . Wait a second. Matthew, hand me that pen, two o'clock."
> 
> Peter removed the ink, then spent a good two minutes tracing over the primary parts of each picture, making sure the lines were deep enough.
> 
> Matt inhaled. With the exhale came the words, "Holy shit."

_**1 : 43 AM**_  
 **Peter-Man:** hi Aunt May!! Sorry im texting you so early  
 **Peter-Man:** i ended up in the kitchen after patrol last night, i'm staying over at Matt's and helping them out at the office later so i was wondering if you could please make sure the feeder is on and the back door is unlocked for Lilo???  
 **Peter-Man:** i'll be back around 7ish later

_**5 : 52 AM**_  
 **aMAYzing:** It's perfectly fine to text me whenever you need, honey. Say hi to the boys and Karen for me! The feeder is on, the back door is unlocked, and Lilo and I went on a nice walk around the block before I left. I'll see you at 7!

_**11 : 08 AM**_  
 **Peter-Man:** !!!!!  
 **Peter-Man:** thank you so much Aunt May!!! You're the best :) :)  
 **aMAYzing:** Anytime, Peter :)  
 **aMAYzing:** Ask Matt if he'd like to join us for dinner, it's been far too long since I last saw him.  
 **Peter-Man:** on it!!   
**aMAYzing:** Thank you  
 **Peter-Man:** give Lilo my love, i'll see you later

Peter looked back to the printer's guts, strewn across the conference room table in front of him. Their printer kept breaking down and crapping out, so many times that eventually even Peter couldn't fix it. Mr. Foggy had bought a new one recently, and commissioned him to make sure this one wasn't cursed like the last. It wasn't.

So far.

"Aunt May wants to know if you wanna come over for dinner tonight," Peter informed Matt, tossing his phone to the side.

"I'm afraid I'm busy tonight, I have court at five. Expected to take a few hours." Matt frowned down at two envelopes. He slid them across the table to Peter. "These are unlabelled, what are they?"

The first one was only put in Matt's mail pile since his name came first alphabetically. Probably taxes, which were sent Mr. Foggy and Ms. Page's way since they could actually read it. The other one was addressed specifically to Matt, with his name stamped on the front in. Literally, in a single row of neat little letters.

"Well this one." He held up second. "Could be one of two things."

Matt sighed, setting his head down. "I don't want to deal with this."

"Suck it up, this ain't the first time. Option one, someone seriously awkward and using out-of-date courtship methods wants to jump your bones. According to your partners and several strangers on the street, you've got a pretty face and a nice ass, so I wouldn't be surprised," Peter continued. "Option two, death threat. Place your bets."

"At this point, I hope it's a death promise."

"Only one way to find out."

Matt groaned. He did not like these letters. 

There had been three so far, including this one, in a little over as many months. Whoever it was, they were woefully unprepared for what would happen if they actually acted on their letters, laughably so. It was honestly entertaining to see them try . . . Whatever it was they were currently trying to accomplish. There'd been a secret admirer kinda letter and death threat so far. 

The typos were terrible, considering it was written with a typewriter of all things. 

So many scratched out words.

"And the answer is . . . Wait a second."

There were more pages than the others in this one. Three and a half of writing, another two with printed out pictures of Matt on both sides. One of them, Peter recognized from a newspaper article three weeks ago, the others? Taken through windows, or from up high. There was one of Matt and Barton talking in a coffee shop with papers on the table between them. Carefully, Peter set the pictures down, skimming the contents of the letter.

"Holy shit."

Matt was staring at him, blank eyes pinned to Peter's chest.

"What? What is it?" he demanded.

"Matthew, hand me that pen, two o'clock."

Matt rolled the pen his way. Peter removed the ink, then spent a good two minutes tracing over the primary parts of each picture, making sure the lines were deep enough. He passed the images to Matt, quiet as he watched his brother retrace the lines with his fingers. Peter tapped the end of the empty pen to his lip.

Matt inhaled. With the exhale came the words, "Holy shit."

"Not the best case scenario, right? Three letters Matthew, three. Whoever this is has been watching for a while, and apparently slipped past your radar," he said, switching out the pen for a screwdriver. He got back to work, using it as an excuse to fidget. "Far as I know, the Hand doesn't usually sent letters."

"No, they wouldn't risk going for me in broad daylight. Even if they did send something, it'd be small and precise, none of the twisting your way around the subject like these, and only once. Must be multiple people too, I'd know if it was one person."

The screw he was working on made a suspicious straining noise, rattling a little.

"Rand deals with the Hand trynna track him down, too, right? Maybe something similar's happening to him."

"I'll ask him tomorrow, I told Karen I'd drop off some documents for her in Chinatown anyways." Matt picked up the pen, straightening the files in front of him. The pictures rested on top. "You're heading back to Brooklyn tonight, right?"

"Maybe I shouldn't. I should stay." He didn't know why he said that. "Y'know, for backup, in case something does happen."

"Peter, there's someone _like you_ around. We both know no matter what you say, you're going to have to talk to him," Matt pointed out gently. "Better sooner than later."

"I know that, I just - "

Peter waved the screwdriver aimlessly through the air to describe it. He connected all the wires that needed connecting, gingerly placing the cover back on the printer. What words would _it_ even refer to? Want to protect, am suspicious, have an ingrained warning system that could really help? Matt had been an adult for a whole 'nother twelve years than he had, qnd had stayed alive while dealing with his weirdo cult war since he was like ten, he knew what he was doing. 

"Mh-hm. Jess and I are doing a run later tonight, I'll pass these off and have for take a look at it. She owes me a couple favors," Matt mentioned idly. "I think I might just stay by her tonight."

Okay. Jess was safe. Okay.

"Wade gets home soon right?" Peter changed the topic. "Does his plane land tomorrow, or Saturday?"

"Tomorrow, I think. You done with the printer."

"Yep. No curses. I'll go set this up. Your meeting should be here shortly."

Peter hefted the printer up into his arms, doing his best not to drop it as he pushed the door open with his foot.

If he knew anything, Miles would wait for no one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Go home."
> 
> Miles did this little pouty-glare kinda thing up at him. He was just going to get more and more annoyed the longer he tried.
> 
> "Spider-Man has been around for almost six years, and you were a lot smaller when you started," Miles pointed out, "so you couldn't have been that much older than me."
> 
> Hm. Smart boy.

"Night, Aunt May," Peter chirped, planting a kiss on her forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Be safe, sweetheart."

"I'll do my best."

Spider-Man did not speak that night. 

He did not quip or joke or insult, he did not say a word at all. Peter was well aware of how criminals thought when the heard Spider-Man was silent, and after only a couple hours it spread like the plague. Crime scuttled back into their respective shitholes and prayed, once they found out. 

Good. 

It saved him time.

Swinging from the heart of Queens across to the South-East corner of Brooklyn took less time than he'd hoped it would. When he couldn't recall the street signs he'd passed on the way, the Sense hissed and pinched until he begrudgingly followed it. While it could turn out to be useful in the future, he didn't overly like the idea of following the danger sense to what could always turn out to be his doom.

It did not lead him to his doom.

It did lead him to Miles.

This time.

The Sense was very pleased when Peter caught sight of the kid, on the same rooftop he'd left him on. He had a duffle bag with him this time. There was a line of spray paint cans along the air conditioning unit, all marked with an X in what was probably marker.

_SPIDERLING spiderling goodgood nohurt goodsafe spider_

Miles paused. He shifted his footing, throwing a few stiff punches into the air. Peter had been noticed and ignored.

Spider, it called him. Kid wasn't a Spider, would you look at him? Even if he had what it took to be Spider-Man, he'd never be able to keep it up long enough for it to matter in five years. He was too rigid, too tense, relied on his dominant side, and his footwork was somethin'. He's too bunched up, probably thinking too much about his fancy newfound powers and not enough about what he can do without.

For your own safety, build up your normal-people strength before you play with the super strength.

The next can Miles hit went flying. It rocketed over the edge of the building, smacking into a clothesline two buildings over and landing in someone's laundry.

Punching empty cans wasn't going to help anyone and they both knew it. Most it would do is irritate your knuckles after a few rounds. You'd probably just get ticked off after a while.

Miles popped two more off into the horizon before he started getting frustrated.

Peter watched him pace in a circle with uneven steps. He was stepping in someone else's tracks. Peter's tracks, specifically, from last night. How cute. Miles kept going for a good two or so minutes before he stepped up onto the barrier around the edge.

Miles is wearing different shoes, out of everything else in the world, is the first thing Peter notices. They're dark, and old, and beat up. The soles have been worn down a bunch. Probably way easier to stick through than the sneakers he was wearing last night.

Smart boy.

"Are you just gonna watch me all night, Spider-Man?" Miles asked loudly. "Not even gonna do anything?"

Peter dropped his elbows onto his knees. He pretended to think about it.

"I mean, sounds like a pretty solid plan."

"You don't even want to train me! What's the point of coming back?"

"Honestly, I was hoping you'd realized how dumb your little idea was. Go home."

Miles did this little pouty-glare kinda thing up at him. He was just going to get more and more annoyed the longer he tried.

"Spider-Man has been around for almost six years, and you were a lot smaller when you started," Miles pointed out, "so you couldn't have been that much older than me."

Hm. Smart boy.

"Sure."

Miles grinned through his costume mask.

"But there are a few things you should know, alongside that knowledge."

The grin fell.

"One," Peter said, counting on his fingers, "I already knew how to hold my own, use a whole cache of weapons, do first aid, etcetera etcetera. Two, I was already far too connected to the mask community. Three, I had people I could tell. And four," here he gave a quiet chuckle. "No one will ever believe you."

"Wh - excuse me?"

"It's called willful blindness, kid," Peter told him, leaning back. "No one wants to believe the person behind the mask is a scrawny little nobody, so they don't even if everything points to the contrary."

Miles made a soft noise of frustration, before turning back to his supposed training.

Peter was tired, today.

The kid stayed out for another few hours. 

Peter ran into Hawkeye the younger after he left. She was wrapped in purple and just as much of an asshole as always. She informed him that she was here to steal back a dog from Hawkeye the elder and possibly conspire just a smidge with Black Widow. She was disappearing right back to L.A. when she was done, she had a date in a few weeks to plan.

Peter wished her luck in her conspiracies in the most mocking way he could think off. She mocked his mocking. They hugged with much distain and parted ways.

Lilo requested pets when he got home. She sat under the window he was trying to climb through and sniffed at his ankles until he pulled off the mask. She stared up at him with much love, and pawed at his legs until he sat down to give her pets.

She was getting very big. He told her his sorrows and she draped herself over his lap, nosing at his side. He'd gotten a little torn up last week, but it's okay, honey, it's mostly gone now, he was okay. He reassured her with fingers carding through her black and white fur.

Thoroughly reassured and pet, Lilo kneads his thigh with her brown paws and their little white mittens, and licks his cheek. She nudged her nose into the underside of his jaw. Lilo left him to go about his night - morning? - and went back to bed. 

Good idea.

Peter followed her lead after having showered and checked how his bruises were healing. He made sure all the entries into the house were closed and locked. He wandered in the nearest bedroom as soon as he was changed. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Waking up was far more unpleasant.

Peter bolted upright and almost shoved Lilo off the bed with the force of it. 

It was light out, closer to noon. He'd slept in. There were no concerning smells in the room. Lilo was pressing up against his side. The cluttered desk and sticky notes stuck all over the walls told him he was in his old bedroom. There was a planter of quiet wildflowers in the windowsill, soaking up sunlight.

The back door was open. It should not be open. 

Quietly, he left the room, keeping to the ceiling. He crawled as silently as possible. 

There was a suspicious black duffle on living room floor. The sense hissed at it. There was an open folder on the coffee table, with documents and pictures of people. Before and after death.

Awh, no. Did some poor rookie think they could deal with Wade and break in to gather evidence? Last idiot got punched multiple times, yelled at, and fired.

Suspect in the kitchen. They did not smell familiar. They smelt like flowery laundry detergent and city and ocean and apple. That kind of smell was not allowed in this house. This unfamiliar is unwelcome.

Peter crawled through the doorframe. Suspect was big, wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and gloves. The Spidey Sense did not hiss at the suspect, in fact it welcomed the suspect.

Suspicious. 

They were holding a juice box and checking their phone. Peter stared, trying to figure out what was wrong. Under the hoodie, the suspect's shoulders expanded with their breathing.

Oh. That was why the Sense said _familiar_.

"You smell wrong," Peter helpfully informed him. "Disgraceful."

The suspect, in all his shitty, scarred glory, turned around. He had the juice box straw between his teeth.

"Well, hello to you too, cake pop," Wade chirped up at him. "What's this I hear about a kid?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Our first sighting of The Beloved Lilo!_
> 
> Lilo is Peter's Service Dog, mentioned in First Impressions. She's a bernese mountain dog and an absolute sweetheart :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does it make it worse like Midland Circle, like my deaths, or like school?"
> 
> Peter opened his mouth to answer - and stopped. He didn't really have an answer, he realized.

"You could've at least texted me, bugaboo. I'm not sure I'm ready to be a grandpa."

"Not having this conversation this early, or while you smell like that," Peter said, gesturing to all of Wade. He zeroed in on the open pack of juice boxes sitting on the counter. "Pass, please."

"I will never understand you and Matty's crazy thing with smell. You need to stop eating shit 'cause it smells good." Wade passed over a juice box. He watched Peter very carefully go through the whole process of opening and getting the straw in while upside-down. "What about me smells disgraceful?"

"S'different detergent and some sea water whatnot and a city that's not ours, unfamiliar. Unfamiliar is unwelcome in home." Mh. Apple juice. "Thought you were another rookie. Disgrace."

"Ah, understandable. Hi baby." 

Lilo entered the kitchen, sniffing at Wade. She, agreeing Wade was disgraceful, tried to wrap herself one hundred percent around Wade's knees. He abandoned his juice and phone to kneel down and give her pets. She took this with much grace and appreciation.

"Yes, you are a very good girl," Wade cooed. "Very good baby."

"You're already a grandpa."

"When the fuck did that happen."

"Lilo is my beloved, blessed miracle of a daughter, I am your child, therefore she is grandbaby," he explained with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You're fuckin' old, man."

"No such thing. I am the fountain of youth. Can you believe this kid, Lilo, so much disrespect." Lilo blinked up at him at the mention of her name. "So disrespectful. Not only is he spewin' blaspheme, he's avoiding the subject."

Ugh.

He was right, but. Ugh.

Peter briefed him after a few jabbing comments back and forth and a quick migration to the living room. "I went back, yesterday. Hoping to see that he'd listened, found him punching paint cans. Sense led me straight to him, don't like that," he said.

"Why don't you like it?" Wade asked in a way that still held on to the question mark, but didn't really sound like a question. 

It was the kind of question where whatever you say doesn't really matter, because he knew the right answer even if the creater of the equation didn't. He was seated on the floor across the coffee table from Peter, having found a pen and his rainbow sticky notes, and started putting notes in the documents before him. Lilo huffed, laying with her head on a pillow beside Peter's hip. Absentmindedly, he smoothed a hand over her fur.

"Because the Spidey Sense is a warning. Following warnings is asking for trouble. And I don't hear or see anything before it goes off, that just makes it worse."

"Does it make it worse like Midland Circle, like my deaths, or like school?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer - and stopped. He didn't really have an answer, he realized. He'd never put it on a spectrum before. The more Peter thought about it, the more he thought he should make a scale for this. After a quiet few minutes of thinking and rethinking, he finally answered.

The first time felt more like Midland Circle. The second was a little like school, only less of a general buzz. It had more of a focused edge to it, if that made sense.

It felt like _familiar goodfamiliar QueensMichelleNedHell'sKitchem-familiar_. But Miles is unwelcome-unfamiliar. It didn't make sense.

"So there was a ping."

A what.

"A ping. Your wonderfully untrusted sixth sense acknowledged him," Wade said with another scribble of his pen. "Y'said something like the difference between us and the baddies back when you were gettin' your head on straight. You wouldn't remember, that was the week you got your head between some rebar and a concrete wall."

. . . Huh.

"What did I say?"

Wade tapped the pen to his lip. "Hm. You said that your fancy little danger-sniffer said certain things for different situations, didn't go off around us unless you asked it to, and called us different things."

"What did it call you?"

"Why don't you have yourself a listen."

Okay. He hadn't needed to sit down and zone in on the Sense for a handful of years. Maybe this was going somewhere.

Peter closed his eyes and listened. Three breathing patterns, two other heartbeats, Wade writing, the charm on Lilo's collar, papers moving. The Sense stayed quiet. He took a breath and tried again, feeling for the base of his neck without moving.

_Talk to me. Tell me about him._

It, well. Pinged. It was a little like Matt's radar, he supposed. It zoned in on Deadpool, jabbing at the back of his mind that this was a docile threat, possible weapon in hand, within arm's reach. Then it dismisses that in favor of basking in the presence Wade Wilson, father of two and sweetheart lover of bad songs on the radio and childish things. It practically purred at him, happy to see Wade home.

_parent-kin fathermothernester safesafetygoodsafe HOME nested HOMEgood nest-kin_

"It says you're safe, and this is your nest, home, too." Peter opened his eyes. Wade was waiting patiently, elbows on the table and chin resting in both hands. "It called you parent-kin, nest-kin. I think that means family."

Wade hummed. "Do you remember what it called your aspiring apprentice, cake pop?"

"Spiderling. It called him a spider," he said. "He's not a spider, having the powers doesn't make you a spider."

"What does make someone a spider."

It's - how to explain. It's not so much of one thing or a line you have to stand on, it was a bundle of things that didn't really make sense all jammed together the way they were but it was too hard to pick them apart, like a ball of web - it was -

Peter blinked, and suddenly he had Wade's pen in hand and a roughly listed explanation hastily scrawled across the back of a picture of a woman with no head. He looked it over once, twice, and slid it over to Wade. Wade read it over calmly, fingers tapping idly at the edge of the table.

"Okay," he finally said, "with this in mind, if the Black Widow was spider food and had been training her powers for years, wouldn't you want her to teach you how to deal with your bite?"

"Of course - oh. Oh, the kid."

"Remember, when you had just gotten your powers, your new metabolism and strength and senses were messing you up? Even if you didn't become Spider-Man, you'd've needed some help. I knew I did, when my metabolism boost kicked it."

"I want to help him, Wade, I do," Peter said, "but I don't want to train him! I don't know how to do help without training him, if I train him he'll go out and get his butt kicked."

"Then don't train him. Observe him, and give a little advice every so often," Wade suggested. "Helping doesn't always have to be with action."

"Stop being logical and a good role model, it's frustrating."

"Sure thing. Now, shoo, before you think too much and overheat. Go take your beloved, blessed miracle of. a daughter for a walk. Pick up eggs and bell peppers while you're out."

Right, eggs and bell peppers.

Up we get, Lilo. Time for work. There was a whiteboard in the basement they could vandalize when they got back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles hissed out _pain, bad, hurts_. Peter hummed back _quiet, reassurance, shh,_ with a rumble from under his ribcage. He barely noticed that Miles had quieted down.
> 
> "Why did I understand that?"
> 
> "Understand what?"

That night, Spider-Man was silent.

Peter rounded back to the house before heading off to Brooklyn. He said hello to Lilo, hi baby, he'll be back in the morning, much kisses, much love, much pets. He threw himself onto Wade's shoulders and demanded a single hug before he left, he ended up receiving some hair pets and a forehead kiss instead. He grabbed the backpack he set up earlier, and threw himself out the upstairs window into the alley.

Miles was exactly where Peter left him last. The kid acknowledged him briefly with a glance, returning to his punching of cans. 

Miles punched some things. Paced for a little. Shifted his stance. Punched some more things. Tried some grappling on the fire escape. Tried walking up the roof access door, only to fall. He smashed his elbow on a ventilation shaft, hit the gravel hard. He didn't get back up, hissing into the empty air.

 _pain-bad-uncomfortable-ow_ , the hiss said.

Peter perched on top of the roof access. "You good?"

Miles sat up, picking gravel out of his newly acquired scrapes. He poked at the largest, from the sharp edge of the vent shaft. "Fine. Why're you here, you aren't gonna do anything," he grumbled.

Peter dropped down, grabbing Miles by his bicep and being sure to still his arm. Miles hissed out _pain, bad, hurts_. Peter hummed back _quiet, reassurance, shh,_ with a rumble from under his ribcage. His wounds weren't closing. They should have been starting to close by now if Miles had been eating well enough to fully maintain a metabolism like theirs. He barely noticed that Miles had quieted down.

"Hmn. You should be healing. Have you been eating enough?"

"Why did I understand that?"

"Understand what?" Peter smoothed a hand over Miles's ribs, counting how many he could feel. 

Miles didn't move, just sitting and staring at him. The Sense seemed to believe this was acknowledgement, and pinged against what Peter assumed to be Miles's Spidey Sense. Miles narrowed his eyes at him. Despite his suspicious looks, Peter got good vibes from the kid, _innocent-new-baby-good-safe_ kinda vibes with the faintest undertone of a feeling that wasn't his. It must have been from the injuries.

There were too many ribs. Kid's been bitten long enough that his metabolism started taking fat from his sides.

"The - the purr. You told me to quiet down," Miles said. "You didn't say anything, but I heard it, you said 'quiet,' you shushed me."

"There are other ways to communicate, kid. You don't see any spiders crawlin' around speaking English in nature, the bite teaches you how to vibe like 'em. S' like turtles and their clicking," he explained plainly. "How much have you been eating?"

"Wh - the usual amount." Miles looked between Peter's hands, one on his elbow and one on his side. "Why. What are you doing."

"You're not eating enough. Look," Peter turned his elbow, drawing a line in the air over the scratches down the forearm. "This should be gone by now, you don't have the energy or calories to heal the way you should."

"What?"

"Healing factor, you have one, it's partially linked to metabolism and energy levels. Keep up," he said. "You need to eat more, our metabolism is way faster than normal. You know all that greasy stuff your parents tell you isn't good for you, that's all calorie-dense, calorie-dense keeps you strong and alive. Double or triple how much you're eating, snack while you're out and about or between classes."

"I thought you weren't gonna help me."

"That doesn't mean I'm gonna let you starve tryna figure it out. Don't get up," Peter said, pushing Miles back down when he tried to get up. He sat down in front of him, slinging his bag over his shoulder and putting it between them. Miles eyes both it and him when he opens it, then the sealed container he sets in front of him. "Drink this, works well with our types."

"What is it? Is it poisoned? You tryna poison me, Spider-Man?"

"Spider-Man doesn't kill."

"Neither does Daredevil, but that's just what the public thinks," Miles said. "You work with Deadpool. Articles and news never show you stopping him."

"Oh, you're clever. We try our best. While it is homemade, it is not poisoned. I would've been dead a long time ago if it was." Peter held up a container of his own, and two throw-away straws. He shook the container a little. "Same batch. Straw?"

Carefully, the kid took a straw. He watched Peter roll his mask up to his nose, stab the straw into the container, and take a sip. Only then did he do the same.

His eyes lit up.

"Dios mío," he whispered. "This is so good? Mamí would love this, do you have a recipe?"

There it was. The amazed smile and little spark that Peter only ever saw in children were there, under the hushed voice and curious questioning. Peter grinned.

"I got no idea what's in these. I'd have to ask - " Peter glanced around at the surrounding rooftops, leaning in to whisper conspiritorally, " - _Deadpool_."

" _Deadpool_? No way," Miles said. He seemed to remember that he was supposed to be annoyed at Peter for not helping him, and shuffled back. "Wait a second, you could've just poisoned the one after it was made."

"You're not dead, and you're not vibing against it or you wouldn't have done that. Guess it's not poisoned."

Miles narrowed his eyes at him. He kept drinking, squinting suspiciously at him the entire time.

Peter's phone buzzed from deep in the backpack while they were sitting together. His Work Phone, the flip-phone burner, not his Real People Phone. The caller I.D. said it was Hawkeye the elder.

"I'll be back with that recipe." Peter slung his bag over his shoulder, stepping up onto the building ledge. He answered, "I'm down South, you need Spider-Man or the Spider?"

He could feel Miles's eyes on him as he swung away.

He'd healed without noticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sustain! Yourselves! Properly!_   
>  _Spider-Man says Self-Care!_
> 
> Be sure to feed yourself as much as you need to stay healthy and three times a day! That means eat as many calories as you need to digest for your age, and let no one shame you for you will live longer and deserve to be happy!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School had started back up for both of them, but that didn't stop either of them from staying out just as late as before.
> 
> He settled down on his usual building to watch.
> 
> Miles was up there, without fail, every night.

The next two and a half or so weeks passed quickly. He and Miles settled into what could have been called a routine. School had started back up for both of them, but that didn't stop either of them from staying out just as late as before.

Peter said goodnight to Lilo and grabbed his bag. He quietly went through patrol in whatever area he was staying in and a round or two through Queens for a couple hours. Went up to Brooklyn. He took care of whatever crime he came across as he circled around to where he first met Miles. He looked over the alleyways on all three sides. Then he settled down on his usual building to watch.

Miles was up there, without fail, every night.

The kid was always there before him, going through his various compilled exercises. He did his punching, and pacing, and practiced sticking to walls. He'd started doing push ups and sit ups when he got frustrated, and stretching before he left for the night. His stance was slowly getting better, which Peter wished it wasn't.

Vaguely halfway through, Peter would come down from his perch with the offering of food. He sat with Miles to make sure he was ate everything, though he doubted the kid wouldn't. Miles would ask why he was still showing up. Peter would shrug. Every few days he'd offer some advice on how o adjust to his spider bite, but it was better to let him figure some of it out on his own because it was a very, very slight chance their powers worked in exactly the same way in every aspect.

They seperated. Peter would play on his phone, do some homework, maybe practice some of his katas, but overall just watches the kid, to be sure he wasn't gonna run off and pick another fight he couldn't win. Miles trained and stretched and paced and so on.

Miles would climb down by the fire escape.

Peter would wait until the alley was clear, before heading back home. Whichever house home may live in at the time.

Hell's Kitchen, right now.

Matt wrapped himself around Peter when he came into the bedroom to grab a change of clothes like a human octopus. He dropped his chin into Peter's hair, arms curved to fit perfectly against his ribs as they had for years, listened to Peter rumble and purr contentment at the contact for a minute or two. Then he shushed his brother softly, tapping gentle rhythms that he knew to be the beating of his heart against his fourth rib.

He said that he found Frank today, sitting on a roof near Matt's church. Sitting and waiting.

"I hear your boy's on a rampage," Frank had said. "Got the Guns up in Queens cancellin' jobs and droppin' safehouses."

Matt had laughed. Peter laughed too, because Matt's impression of Frank was far deeper and scratchier than necessary.

He said Frank had asked what was so funny. He said, "The community knows not to mess with the brat when he stops sayin' shit. More dangerous than the Merc. Tell your boy to calm the hell down, Underground's gonna pack up at this rate."

Well that wasn't helpful. They had targets to track in the Underground.

"What'd you tell 'im?"

"Told 'im he ain't ever seen you on a rampage. I wouldn't bother being worried if you went quiet, I'd start getting anxious if you got louder." Matt's fingers went still, prompting Peter to look up at him as much as he could without dislodging himself from his comfortable prison. "How's it going with the kid?"

"He's stubborn," Peter sighed. "His training regiment is essentially useless but he's learning, as much as I wished he wasn't. He looks like he's been eating better, and isn't gonna starve in a ditch anytime soon. I've been giving him advice, like Wade said I should. Buy pencils to get used to your strength, find an easy way to relax to stop sticking, get good headphones and unscented detergent to gelp with the dialled up senses; basic life stuff."

Matt hummed in response. It's vibrations spread through his chest and across Peter's shoulders. It was a welcome feeling.

"I would leave him alone, but I still think he might try to go after the guys from the first night, the seven with the tattoos - did I tell you about the tattoos?" Matt nodded. "Did I ever find out what they were for? What they connected to, stuff like that?"

Mat paused. Peter could feel him thinking in the way his heartbeat shifted from topic to topic or memory to memory, in the way he ran the edge of his thumb over the side of the first knuckle in his index finger, in the way he shifted his head from side to side, listening as he thought.

"I don't think so. Or at least you never told me. Did you ask Wade, or pass it by Old Man Weasel?"

No, why would he - ? Ah. Right. Criminal underworld liaisons, why wouldn't he.

"I might've been a little distracted at the time."

"Hmn. By the kid."

"He's a _baby_ , Matty. What was I supposed to do, leave him alone?"

"Mhm." How dare you, Matthew, how dare. "You presence encourages him."

"Lies and slander. I am actively discouraging him."

"Sure. You don't want to train him," Matt said, "or so you claim."

"Of course I don't!"

Matt's heartbeat shifted. He freed one of his hands to pat Peter's hair, which would have been perfectly normal if he hadn't sighed and said, "Oh, hon."

He was using _the tone._

Peter jammed an accusatory elbow into his side.

"No. Don't use that tone with me, that's your I Know Something About You That You Don't Know tone. Stop it."

"Oh, _hon_ ," Matt crowed, continuing to pat his hair.

"No distracting me with affection! That tone is bad, none o' that allowed. What do you know."

"Shhh. Shush, Little Spider, no stressing."

How. Dare. He will stress as much as he goddamn wants, that tone warrants stressing. Peter hissed offense up at him.

"No stressing, dearest. You have a date tomorrow."

Oh, no.

He'd forgotten about his date with Ned. He was such a bad date, he'd make the worst boyfriend ever. He didn't deserve a guy like Ned.

Matt laughed at his sudden panicked misery. 

In light of this new distraction, Peter forgot about the previous topic of discussion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter had just leaned in to ask for a kiss when all hell broke loose.
> 
> Something went _boom_ further along the waterfront.

Peter had stressed so much after Matt reminded him of his date that he almost cried. This entire family was in anxiety and other such nonsense up to their ears on a good day, buckets of anxiety and other such nonsense, it was terrible. He couldn't even take comfort in the affection Matt offered since he'd betrayed him like this. Matt had to guide him through a meditation while Lilo draped herself across his lap, her weight a familiar reassurance.

Peter kicked Matt in the shins all throughout breakfast the next day. It was petty, and he didn't care.

He was excited. He and Ned hadn't been able to see each other in person a lot lately because of dealing with their respective colleges, but they had been planning this for a while and Peter was stupid enough to forget what day it was. But that was not his fault, and he was excited to see Ned in person. See his boyfriend or best friend or whatever they were calling it, it didn't matter because it was _Ned and Peter_ and that was the only label that really mattered. 

Today was a day for positivity.

Peter picked out his softest skirt and his favorite Star Wars shirt to tuck into the hem. He puts in a pair of Matt's earrings, smooth red ones with what used to be a shiny finish, because the guy only ever wore earrings for court or special occasions he had no reason to have such nice earrings if he never wore them and also these ones match Peter's skirt very well. He took a satchel with him too, for his wallet and the suit.

Just in case. Always just in case.

They meet up at the station just outside Midtown Science And Technology, took the subway into Queens. They wandered the streets all afternoon, talking about everything from school to LEGOs to this one Spider-Man tracking account on Twitter. They got boba tea from that one really good place a few streets down from the harbor and hung out in the park where they tried to climb the tallest trees and Ned almost fell out on three occasions while Lilo barked her encouragements. They laughed about it and sat on the highest branches until someone came to yell at them to get down. 

They walked, hand in hand, around the edge of the city, looking out at the water, for the rest of the afternoon. 

It was . . . Nice.

It made him forget about the kid and patrol and Matt's latest penpal and the mystery of the gang with the tattoos and the thirty hours of lab time he still needed to work on for his latest assignments. For the first time in what felt like forever, he thought about the here and now and Ned and him and nothing could shake him.

It was the best day Peter's had in months.

Ned brought him to that warehouse the Wilsons had commandeered when Peter was knee-high, showed him to the more closed off back area where a pillow fort had been carefully contructed, fairy lights strung up along the walls and a projector hooked up to Ned's laptop.

"Star Wars?" Peter asked.

"What else would we watch?" 

"You really know how to treat a guy."

They kept up a running commentary and playful banter all throughout the first half of the original trilogy, already having memorized the movies from how often they's watched them as kids. Lilo was fascinated by the transports, and the pod race in particular. 

God, Ned was awesome. Peter found himself watching him instead of the movies on several occasions. 

There was this one beautiful moment where Ned was rambling about something on screen, batting at Peter's arm so he'd pay attention. He looked over and they made eye contact and just quietly held it for a moment before it made them fall into a fit of giggling at nothing in particular. Peter had just leaned in to ask for a kiss when all hell broke loose.

Something went _boom_ further along the waterfront. He only pulled away from shielding Ned when the second one rang out, further away. 

After Hell's Kitchen's Russians getting wiped out was pinned on Daredevil, a relatively new member of the Mask community at the time and entirely innocent, bigger-scale explosions not monitored by a Cape or Suit was an immediate call for backup unless otherwise specified in an effort to keep unwarranted blame off the community. It didn't do much, but it helped. While Brooklyn wasn't Spider-Man territory, there there weren't all that many vigilantes based this side of the river. 

"I have to go," Peter finally said. "I have to help them. I'm so sorry, I have to go."

"I know. I'll bring Lilo home, we'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Ye - Yes, okay. Thank you, I love you," he said in a rush, kneeling down to undo Lilo's vest. He ran a hand through her fur. "Be good for Ned, take care of him, okay?"

"You'll need this." Ned passed him his bag, pulling him in for a quick kiss. "Be safe."

He'd try his best. 

He suited up in record time, stashed his bag in the rafters, already swinging through the streets before a minute had passed. 

Getting boots on the ground was an unexpected challenge. There were things flying around and smaller explosions sending tremors through the ground. The area that was hit was densely populated; a couple apartment buildings, some small stores, a fast food place, your typical NYC streets with the constant traffic, NYPD pulling up. People panicking did not help in the current necessary evacuation process.

Peter crawled to the edge of the overhang, sticking hands to the nearby lamppost and climbing up. 

"The situation is being handled," he informed the panicked public, using his best Soldier Voice like Wade had taught him. People turned to look at him immediately. "There is no need for panic, everything is being handled. Please work with the NYPD, and calmly follow the officers to the outside of their established perimeter."

Another tremor shook through the ground, knocking Peter's perch loose. He swung to the ground, attaching the lamppost to the nearest building with a line of web. 

"This way people, this way!" 

He directed as many people as he could to the nearest cruisers for instructions. With most of the civilians out of the way, he was free to swing towards the center of the action. 

It looked like a new mafia alliance had decided that local good guys were too much of a problem. Hawkeye and Hawkeye were holding down the fort, with Sergeant Barnes assisting and Ms. Jones working on clearing debris and people out. 

Better get comfortable, Peter, this'll take a while.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It registered the kid pinned against Peter was not, in fact, a random civilian who got shoved into the mess on accident. 
> 
> The kid pinned against Peter was, in fact, The Kid. The Spiderling. Miles, in his shitty two-dollar mask, with a backpack still slung over one shoulder and shoelaces undone.

Peter hit the ground in a roll, ducking behind an abandoned car. A burst of gunfire from the mafia people followed him. Kate's bow slid across the ground towards him. When her back hit the passenger side door, she was panting. Adrenaline was one hell of an accelerator, especially when under fire. 

_arms, head._ Peter threw his arms up, protecting his head. Kate followed his lead. Not a moment later, the windows above them broke, exploding out. He curled in a little, further shielding himself, shaking glass off when it was finished raining on them.

"What happened to skippin' town?" He yelled over the sound of bullets eating away at their cover. "Get sick of LA yet?"

"Oh you know, plans change, entitled white boys think up some bullshit, police decide you aren't allowed to do your goddamn job. The usual," Kate shot back, venom tying together her syllables. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

"Was on a date."

"There's a surprise," she said, ducking a close call grazing the hood of the car. She glanced down at his wrist. "You better have half-decent aim with those things."

Peter made a big show of looking at her bow. "You better have half-decent aim with that thing," he mimicked horribly. He could tell she was trying not to smile at it, the corner of her lip twitching upwards before she schooled her expression. "Where you need me, Hawkeye?"

"Remember the bridge, back when we were shoulder-high?"

Oh ho ho. 

"You know it. I'll give you fifteen seconds."

Peter rocked forward into a crouch, spinning on his heel and putting a little distance between himself and the car. There was a lull in the gunfire, he listened to the clicking and shuffling to reload. Someone dropped something metallic and scrambled after it. Ms. Jones was carrying a little boy along the perimeter of the scene. Sergeant Barnes was taking a big guy head on, evenly matched. Peter inhaled deeply.

Time to raise some hell. 

Kate signaled her mentor. They scattered, Hawkeye the Younger to better cover, Hawkeye the Elder to higher ground, Ms. Jones towards the police, Sergeant Barnes behind the nearest object that wouldn't shatter upon impact with a semi. Peter stuck his hands to the pavement behind him, bracing himself.

The half-destroyed car went flying over Sergeant Barnes and the opponent that followed, straight into the enemy line. It clipped someone's head as it flipped, sending them sprawling, and landed on some poor woman's leg. She screamed loud.

The Spider threw himself behind enemy lines, fast and manic. 

Duck. Roll. Pivot, twist, strike. Left. 

Snap the barrel. Sweep the leg. Turn, strike. 

Launch, stick, web. _dodge, watch right, head_. Spin, kick. 

Take out the knees. Aim for the head. Break the elbow.

Strike. Kick, leftleftright, web. Strike. 

They fought for what felt like hours. Attack, defend, don't get shot, don't get your allies shot. 

Ms. Jones joins him behind some rubble when the enemy gets all their ducks in a row and lay down some really heavy fire. She's picking shrapnel out of her arm, asks him if he could reset her shoulder. It goes back into place with a cracking-popping sort of sound. He offers to web something up for her shoulder.

He weaves her a sling, attaching a seperate strap that connects to the other behind her back to be sure it doesn't get displaced again on accident. He sprays a layer of natural webbing over those of the scratches and glancing wounds against his side that still bled. It stung and took some extra energy, but it was sterile and he had enough to spare.

"Thanks, brat. Hey, you talked with Horns lately? He's gone and gotten his life all messed up again," Ms. Jones began conversationally. 

"Mm. Last night. He stayed with you a while back, right?" She shrugged her uninjured shoulder, making a noncommital noise. "How's it been going with the Hand raids? Word on the street is Rand and Cage have been busting a new cell every couple days."

"For once, word on the street is right. They're on a warpath, it's a mess," Ms. Jones complained. "They're throwing everything that gets in their way down the nearest set of stairs. Zero plans, not even a little stealth."

"How terrible."

Electricity raced through his every nerve, screaming through his bones and overwhelming his instincts. Peter grabbed Ms. Jones's collar and threw them both away from their cover. Just in time too, it seems.

The Prowler stands were they'd been sitting not a moment prior, deep gouges trailing after his glove in what used to be their rubble cover. He jerks towards them violently, wretching his claws free as Peter shoves Ms. Jones out of the way of life-threatening damage. He pushes off hard, cracks splitting out from under his feet, throwing himself back just in time to avoid claws digging into his intestines. He isn't fast enough to avoid injury, and that earns him an arc of flesh torn through near down to the ribs.

He gasps on a stuttering breath when he stops moving, back slamming against a crooked lightpost. The force of it and the numbing pain across his chest makes his eyes water enough to leave him unable to tell who tackled Prowler. Prowler goes down almost as hard as Peter did, and he and whoever's on top of him - small with lanky limbs - wrestling briefly in the middle of the street.

The Spider-Sense kicked back in, working double time. _SPIDERLING_ it screeches, pulsing violently somewhere behind his eyes and through his skull, _SPIDERSPIDER SAVE HELP DANGER PROTECTSPIDER_

Before he could spin together a single coherent thought, his wrist snapped out and a taut line of webbing snagged the back of the kid's shirt. Peter pulled, the kid flew out of the way of the Prowler and those _danger-hurt-hurtspider-ow-injure-painNOnopain_ claws, Peter caught the kid by the belt and tucked him against his side where he'd be safe. Hawkeye and Hawkeye laid down cover fire to keep the Prowler still long enough for Barnes to have a go at him.

His Spider-Sense pinged against someone else's. This kid was so in trouble.

It registered the kid pinned against Peter was not, in fact, a random civilian who got shoved into the mess on accident. 

The kid pinned against Peter was, in fact, The Kid. The Spiderling. Miles, in his shitty two-dollar mask, with a backpack still slung over one shoulder and shoelaces undone. He seemed so much smaller and thinner and more fragile under Peter's arm and fretting over the wounds on his chest that were gonna make him real light-headed if he didn't deal with it soon.

Fffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuu . . . Hhhn. Guess he wouldn't be recycling webbing anytime soon. Ugh, producing it from scratch in this quantity was a pain every time, throwin' off his sleep schedule and messin' with his Spider-Manning.

He had to put on three layers. Pain in his ass. At least he was moderately more safe from suffering through an infection with the webbing band-aid in place, but he wouldn't be going into work tomorrow that's for sure. And now he has to make that phone call to his lab manager who he's pretty sure hates him, that was gonna be annoying, and another to his professor who didn't hate him but Ms. Andy was so sweet and he hated to bother her especially while she was so busy prepping for the baby - oh, someone's hands were on his face, the kid was holding Peter's face, okay.

"Spidey," Miles was saying, hushed and hurried, with scared eyes and a tremor in his hands. "Spidey, stay awake. What do I do?"

So we're skipping getting light headed and going straight to trying to loose consciousness. Fun. It was starting to feel like he wasn't getting back home any time soon. Did they have a safe house nearby? Where even were they?

"Barnes!" Miles flinched, hands moving to wrap around Peter's arm. "Location?"

Sergeant Barnes popped his head up to look around. He rattled off their current location and a couple nearby streets, one of which was home to a Wilson family safe house, thank God. "You tapping?" he asked.

"Definitely."

Then his attention turned to the kid, still tucked safely under Peter's arm and now holding onto his forearm like a lifeline. Miles hums _concern, worry, unsafe_ , glancing between Peter and the man struggling under the weight of three people. Sergeant Barnes exchanged a few words with Hawkeye the Elder. Hawkeye the Younger was sent their way, hooking the strings of her bow over her quiver. She puts Peter's free arm over her shoulders and helps Miles drag him to his feet.

 _pain-bad-HURTS_ Peter hissed out.

Miles hummed back _quiet-reassurance-shh_ with a rumble from under his ribcage. 

Peter can feel Kate's shoulder tense. He just knows she's sending him a dirty look that's gotten them into plenty half-hearted arguments before. He's too tired to argue, all his energy seemed to have drained out of him with the blood. He gives her the safehouse address and apartment number in a common cipher. She helps him there without complaint and only a few questions.

Is this bad enough to call in reinforcements? Sure feels that way, he needs someone to close the wounds properly if he wants to heal right. 

Does he have anyone to call? Take your pick, she'd also work just fine if her stitches were straight. 

Who's the tagalong is her last question. He says Miles is unfortunate spider food who wants in on the action.

"Think this'll scare 'im straight?"

When they reach the door to the fourth floor, Kate leans around him to get a good look at Miles. The kid shrinks under her gaze, tucks himself closer to Peter's side. She makes a considering noise. It meant "probably not."

Probably not.

He starts blacking out once they're inside and the door is locked. Kate drops him on the bed, trying to loosen the top clasp of his boot to get the knife hidden inside. Distantly, he hears her telling the kid to get the first aid kit.

The darkness gets to him when he starts loosing feeling in his fingers.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, baby," Wade had said when he was barely fifteen, voice shaking behind a mask of fake calm, running his fingers through Peter's hair. "Got me real worried for a while there. How you feeling, cake pop?"
> 
> He feels like he got a head start and all the support anyone could ask for and he still got screwed, Miles will be dead within a year, less than, and he could've helped the kid if only he'd _listened._

Between swatches of dark behind his eyelids, Peter grabs for consciousness. He wakes in fitful snatches of almost-awareness. Every time he opens his eyes, he's in pain. Every time he makes a sound, there's someone at his side. He appreciates that. He registers a couple details every time he manages to glance around, several times the only way he remembered where he was was thanks to the constellations on the bedroom ceiling. 

Only the Brooklyn safehouse has glow-in-the-dark stars, he recalls distantly like a memory from early childhood.

The apartment is cold.

Peter is tired.

He doesn't know of it's the Spider in him or what's left of the Normal that makes him so tired. He thinks maybe it's both, and maybe it's the cold, and maybe it's the injury shaped like death to someone without a healing factor.

Kate is there the first few times he claws his way back to the light. 

When he first wakes up, it's under her knife. 

She's got a needle in bloody hand, the kid anxiously passing her a wet towel when he looks over at them. He hisses sharply when she uses it to wipe some of the mess away. 

He closes his eyes.

He's in fresh clothes, loose sweats and a shirt that isn't his, too wide in the shoulders. 

Miles's backpack is by the door. He can hear Kate talking in the other room, footsteps steady as she paces. 

Peter tries to sit up. 

He closes his eyes.

The pain is worse. It burns, almost like acid, with every breath. 

The bed dips beside him. Kate helps him sit up, lifts his shirt to check his bandages. She doesn't like whatever she sees, if her grimace is anything to go by. She tells him she'll be right back. 

The backpack is gone. 

She returns with a couple bottles, asks him questions he can't remember, gets him to take something bitter. 

He closes his eyes.

Why is the kid here? He should be at home, school, somewhere that wasn't here. He sits with his back to Peter, homework laid out on the floor in front of him, reading from a textbook propped up on his backpack.

He doesn't feel like he can move. The pain is searing. His body doesn't want to listen to him and neither does his mind. 

His Spider-Sense hums against Miles's and for a split second he feels so absolutely, impossibly in sync with the spiderling. It feels like the lowest point in the arc of a swing. The weightless feeling between one web and the next. The single second his feet glide over the ground, almost touching but not quite, before he lands. He can't explain it fully, but it feels right.

His wrist twitches when he tells his brain to make the body roll onto it's side. Miles's attention snaps away from his work.

He closes his eyes.

He can't tell which of his phones is buzzing. It turns out to be his burner, which is promising. It turns out to be Weasel, which is even more promising.

He answers, and promptly misses the first half of what the old man says. He catches "Brooklyn safehouse," "check in," "last seen," "more in-and-out than usual."

"You're the one in the Brooklyn house, confirm?"

"Confirm."

"You okay, kid?" 

The pain is still burning with every breath. That probably doesn't mean anything good. It's eased up a little, but that's about all it's improved. He lifts the collar of his shirt and stares down at his bandaged torso for a long moment. There's some lines of faint yellow-pink-brown over where he knows Prowler's claws tore through him. The color does not inspire confidence, and neither does the smell. It smelled like illness, probably infected. That probably meant there was something on the Prowler gloves that was messing him up from the inside.

Sure explained why he still felt like total crap.

"Kid?"

"Feel terrible," Peter finally says, more like grumbles, really, and wow was his mouth this dry the entire time? "How long's it been?"

Peter's cold and tired.

"Three days."

Haha funny, no, really. Weasel tells him again, three days. He's missed so much class and so much work, not to mention his patrols - this is horrible. And to make it worse he wasn't sure he'd be going anywhere any time soon, he sure as hell wasn't gonna be swinging back to Hell's Kitchen in this condition. He had so many people to call and his phone was dead. It was a miracle his burner still had battery.

Peter thanked Weasel and hung up. He tossed the burner back in the pile of his other items on the floor - who emptied his pockets?

Peter stares at the wall until he hears little footsteps in the other room.

He closes his eyes.

Someone's hand presses between his shoulder blades. Gently, they shake him awake. He blinks at the wall while they curl an arm around his shoulders and pull him mostly upright. 

"Hey man," Kate says, subdued, "time for your favorite time of day, time for your next round of lovely kid-friendly drugs."

Her phrasing startled a laugh out of him that he immediately regrets. She jolts back at the sound, wild-eyed.

"Jesus Christ, Spidey, you gave me a heart attack!" Under the hard edge of her tone, she's relieved. Really relieved.

"Why's'at?"

"Usually you're super out of it." She hands him a cup of something that's not quite water, smells like medicine, tastes worse than it smells. "Don't answer, make some spider-noises, pass out again right after."

"Been awake longer every time, I think," he tells her. Without his brain's consent he says "Wanna go home. If I'm not gettin' any better I wanna be by family."

Kate's look is knowing, a little saddened. She nods. Trying not to put pressure on his wounds, she pulls him into a hug. They don't say anything for a long while.

He closes his eyes.

The space between being awake is wrong but familiar. It feels like winter, like the first winter after he got bitten. He was so tired, then, tired and cold, and he closed his eyes and drifted.

In all honesty, it scared the shit out of him. To fall asleep in his room one night, and wake up a week later in Harlem, laying on a cot in a stranger's living room. To find out after the fact that that was normal, was to be expected, would likely happen again. 

It wasn't so scary, the next winter. They were well prepared the next winter. But the wondering when he'd wake up if he ever did whenever he closed his eyes? If he fell asleep in class he'd be put in a hospital and possibly found out and shipped off to a lab in the middle of the night. If he fell asleep on patrol he could lay there until he died of dehydration, or get found and suffer in the corner of a holding cell, unable to wake himself up, or get his identity leaked.

The space between being awake isn't like that, but it's close.

He feels like he's drifting through empty space with no set destination, alone with only fleeting thoughts to light the way in place of stars.

He passes through a star that warms his blood thinking of constellations. He thinks of the ceiling he knows he's laying under right now, safe in Brooklyn in the hands of his friend healing ever so slowly fighting off an infection. He thinks of staying in Brooklyn when he was little, and how he'd had Wade print out a star chart off Google to make sure they were accurate.

He doesn't remember thinking while he was drifting when he wakes up. Only the dark of the space between being awake.

The bed dips beside him. He can hear someone moving. A scarred hand rakes through his hair. Peter leans into the touch. He opens his eyes to the shape of Wade Wilson in the dark and glow-in-the-dark stars a soft green-blue on the ceiling.

He doesn't know what he would call the noise that escapes him, but he knows the feeling near his eyes is tears. He doesn't know why he'd be crying.

"Dad?" he hears himself say in a creaky sort of voice.

"Hey, baby," Wade says, low and gentle. He brushes Peter's unkempt curls out of his face. "Got me real worried for a while there. How you feeling, cake pop?"

He feels like he's barely fifteen again.

He feels like he's waking up from having a building dropped on him. 

He's scared for no reason and his head hurts and the scars across his shoulders ache and itch and pull

"Hey, baby," Wade had said when he was barely fifteen, voice shaking behind a mask of fake calm, running his fingers through Peter's hair. "Got me real worried for a while there. How you feeling, cake pop?"

He feels like he got a head start and all the support anyone could ask for and he still got screwed, Miles will be dead within a year, less than, and he could've helped the kid if only he'd _listened._

What comes out is a dry, pained sob. 

Wade gets an arm behind his back and pulls Peter up into his arms. Peter slings his arms over Wade's shoulders and holds on for dear life, burying his face in his father's neck. He seeks comfort in Wade's quiet calming humming, his warmth, the sound of his equipment coming to rest with his deep breaths, the smell of home and the blanket of safety he provides.

Wade holds him for the longest time.

"We okay?" Wade finally asks, right beside his ear. Peter thinks about it. Nods. "Okay. Why don't you go take a shower, get some fresh clothes. I'll make you something to eat, take a look at how you're healing, and give you your antibiotics. We'll figure out what comes next after. Sound like a plan?"

He nods. He lifts his head to gently knock his temple against Wade's. Wade smooths a hand over the scars on his shoulders, it soothes the aching feeling seeping into his bones. Peter clings for a moment longer, and then a small stack of clothes is put in his arms and Wade disappears.

His pain's not too bad today. It's better than the last time he remembered being awake. Doesn't burn so much as just suck in general. He's a little more unstable than he expected getting up, thank you enhancements for sticky feet and good balance. 

Peter catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror after he struggles out of his shirt. The guy staring back at him looks well on his way to half dead, pale and thinner than he should be. There are dark circles under his eyes despite all the time he's spent asleep in who knows how many days. His skin looks feels is clammy, his hair is a rat's nest of tangles and knots he has no chance to unwind by himself. His bandages aren't white anymore. His hands pause around the pin securing the end in place. He wonders if he _wants_ to see what happened. 

The mirror shows him there's barely any red. Most of what's seeped through to the top layer is more of that yellow-pink-brown color. A lot of the rest is a sickly, dark off-white. It looks pretty bad already, he's not sure he won't start panicking if he sees the actual damage. He does not need that right now.

He faces away from the cracked mirror, turns on the shower, and unwinds the gauze while the water heats up. He refuses to look down and see the injury right now.

The hot water is a relief he didn't know he wanted until it runs down his back, drumming a lullaby of reassurance that he'll be okay onto his skin. It stings against closing wounds. He watches red-yellow-rust-pink swirl down the drain. He breathes in steam and breathes out any terrified thoughts racing through his mind a million miles and hour.

He breathes a little easier, trying to untangle his hair with no chance of success and succeeding anyway because he just needed his hands to move.

The rest him catches up while he's got his fingers caught in a stubborn knot near the back of his head. Suddenly he's floored by how thirsty stressed hungry sore _alone unsafe vulnerable_ he is. He tries to keep breathing. It's not so easy to just breathe anymore, so he closes his eyes and leans his head on the shower wall and focuses on something else, something he can rationalize away.

He can hear Wade in the small kitchen. He's making something that smells like dough, he has water boiling, his katanas are still on his back, he's humming some cheery pop song he probably heard on the radio. You're not alone.

He's in a safehouse in Brooklyn. Wade wouldn't keep it this long if it wasn't locked down. There are four locks on the door, locks on ever window, and a security system that alerts someone if anyone opens any entrance, and they have a system. You're safe.

He's goddamn Spider-Man. He's got super strength and a warning system built into his brain. He's been training in self-defence since he was a kid, he knew how to unarm someone with just about any weapon, and he had his most valuable tool built into his arms. There is one entry into this room and he would know if anyone was in the apartment. You're not vulnerable.

You're okay. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. You're okay.

The towel doesn't stain too bad when he's done patting his chest dry, cursing softly the whole way. He soaks it in cold water in the sink and drapes it over the side of the tub to dry, just to be safe. He attempts to dry his hair with a smaller towel. With a sigh, he resigns himself to a frizzy, untameable mess, and he leaves the bathroom with the towel around his neck.

Wade's not in the kitchen anymore. Peter waits for him by the counter for one long, long moment. A stuttery clicking noise creeps out of him, and the relief of hearing Wade clicking back from somewhere in the storage room is heavy weight off his chest. Peter shuffles over on bare feet.

From the doorway, he watches Wade put stuff away. He brought a duffle of various supplies with him, it seems. The ammunition goes on it's little shelf above the weapon rack. Non-perishables get sorted into their respective food groups along the shelves shoved against the wall. He hands Peter a pack of beef jerky to nom on while he works. Peter sits on the floor to eat while Wade puts tools away in the cases under the window. The good medkit gets taken down and some bleach is put on the shelf underneath.

Wade herds him towards the dining table. He reassessed his wounds and wraps him back up in a layer of gauze. He gives him the same terrible smelling even worse tasting antibiotics Kate had. He puts a bowl of colorful swirly pasta in front of him and briefs him on recent while he eats. 

The front door clicks. Wade draws his swords, quiet.

None other than Miles pushes the door open, backpack hanging off his shoulder. He stares at Peter, then slowly slides his gaze over to Wade. He looks back to Peter, towards the hallway he came from, to the room Peter had been laying in for so much time.

The Spidey-Sense thrums happily at Miles. The kid's eyes widen. Peter sticks another colorful, swirly noodle in his mouth without breaking eye contact.

"UHHHH," Miles finally says in the highest voice Peter's ever heard.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you know about your spider?"
> 
> "I - I don't have any spiders - "
> 
> "Give me your hand." Miles stared at him in what could only be defined as confusion. "Gimme your hand."

"I think I have the wrong apartment," Miles finally said.

Peter tucked his feet onto his chair, balancing his bowl on his knees. Wade placed his katanas on the table. He rolled his shoulders back, raised his chin, and crossed his arms over his chest. It made him look bigger, and Wade was already a mountain of a man. Miles shrunk back at the sight of him.

"I'll just be going now," the kid squeaked.

Peter _chirp-click_ ed. Miles answered _click-click-chirp_ , immediately looked horrified at himself. Wade raised a non-existent brow at them through the mask.

"Get in here, kid." Miles obediently shut and locked the door. He stood there, distinctly uncomfortable, picking at the sleeve of his hoodie. Peter waved a hand in his direction. "Deadpool, Spiderling. Spiderling, Deadpool."

Wade's other non-existent brow crept up to join the first. He made a show of blinking at Miles's tiny form, then slowly looking between the two spiders. He freed a hand from his crossed arms to rest it on the hilt of one of the blades on the table. 

"So," he drawls, leaning his head a little to one side. "This is the one you've told us so much about."

"Sit with me," Peter said, tapping the edge of the table, "He's just trying to freak you out, does it to everyone. Don't worry, he wouldn't hurt a fly."

"I doubt that," Miles says with a nervous laugh, eyeing Wade as he cautiously took a seat. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, eyes low, and he seemed to flicker around the edges. Staring at the flickering too long made Peter's head hurt, but he swore it was like Miles was trying the wrap himself in the world's worst invisibility cloak, trying to fade from the visual plane of existence.

Interesting. Make a note of that, different spider could mean different program and new powers depending on the possible genetic modifications made as part of the program. If there was a different program that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. Put that on the list. 

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, the species of their spiders could have some hand in what their powers were, right? He'd have to see if he wrote anything down for his when he was younger.

"What do you know about spiders? Your spider specifically."

"What?"

"What do you know about your spider?"

"I - I don't have any spiders - "

"Give me your hand." Miles stared at him in what could only be defined as confusion. "Gimme your hand."

Hesitantly, the kid reached over the katanas laid on the table. Peter turned his hand to be palm-up. He slid his thumb under the edge of Miles's sleeve and over the inside of his wrist. When he felt the slightest bump, Miles flinched and tried to wretch his arm away only for it to stick and that wasn't Peter's fault. He passed his bowl to Wade, pushing up the kid's sleeve to his elbow. Bruises, the newest looking about a week old and and oldest an ugly green-yellow-grayish color, followed a perfectly straight line up his arm and faded out across his forearm. 

Wade made a _tch_ noise with his tongue as he turned back towards the supply room. "I'll get the kit."

Miles looked between his arm, Peter, and Wade's back in distress. "I haven't done anything wrong, I haven't been looking for fights," he blurted out, "I swear, Spidey."

Peter hummed, focusing his hearing solely on Miles, centered on his heartbeat. He had a hummingbird heart, just like Peter. He pressed gently on the worst of the bruises and asked if there was any pain. No pain, just discomfort, truth. He asked if he'd taken any pain meds or drugs of any kind. None, truth. He'd met the kid maybe three and a half or so weeks ago, right? And how long had he had powers before that? Maybe a week, truth.

Now he had a timeframe. Vaguely six weeks, that was enough time for the spinnerets to finish developing. For the muscles to form, tubing and opening to come in, oils to properly mix, and production glands to grow, all while the healing factor tried to fight it before the body adapted, for the body to adapt as it happened when the brain knows this doesn't belong on a normal human, and for the brain to adapt to the new situation at the same time as the Sense and senses and instincts kicked in, well. It was a process to say the least. While the initial bruising had faded, Miles was still unused to the new system and needed to get used to the muscles, the webbing, the current sensitivity and soreness and of course simply having spinnerets. Paired with his probable apprehension and hesitation along with likely using them on accident, that explained the new bruising. Of course he also needed to learn how much webbing was too much according to his body mass, how to recycle the webbing, that it was okay to recycle the webbing, and how much he needed to keep up with his metabolism or even eat more in order to produce more webbing in the case that he does need it. And also that if he didn't his body would start eating itself to produce it.

It was a whole mess, really.

Peter was dragged out of his thinking when Miles tried to jerk his arm back again. His skin pulled a little when the kid stuck, breath stuttering for half a second. He looked anxiously between Peter and the direction Wade went several times before his eyes slid to the window, and finally the door. He tried pulling away again. He couldn't control his stick, he was too anxious.

"What do you do to relax? Hobbies, extracuriculars, meditation?" Peter asked softly. He purposefully stuck his fingers to Miles's wrist, slowly unsticking them and repeating the process. It became second nature eventually, but Miles wasn't there yet. "I listen to music while I work, EDM believe it or not, stuff's everywhere on YouTube. Feels alive, helps me relax. Of course there's also spending time with family and friends, thinking of happy times and dumb conversations and all that. Personally, I like to spend some time with animals. A dog tucks itself under your arm, a cat sits in your lap, a bird lands on your shoulder and cuddles up? Goodbye stress, it's great."

"I - I draw a lot?" Miles answered cautiously, suspiciously. "Headphones on usually.

"Got a favorite song?"

"Uhh . . . Sunflower, I guess."

"Sounds familiar, cam't put my finger on it. Mind humming it, maybe I've heard it before."

Miles eyed him for a moment. He hummed something, Sunflower presumably, quietly, mumbling the words he knew. Ever so slowly, he stopped sticking. He stared at his hand, suddenly free, and Peter. "You - "

"Wade," he called over Miles's head, "he's got six weeks."

Wade slammed the kit down on the table with a little more force than necessary. Miles jumped so hard he almost his chair almost went toppling over. He would've landed on the ceiling if his foot hadn't caught the underside of his chair. He would've hit the ground if Peter hadn't stuck his foot to the leg of the chair and righted him. Wade didn't look the least bit apologetic, ignoring Miles's tense posture and the way the edge of the table groaned under his fingertips in favor of placing things from the kit on the table.

"What's got you all worked up?" He asked, pitching his voice in the range of curious surprise. When Miles jerked his arm in Wade's direction with a glare, he dialled the surprise up a notch and stared like he'd never seen his dad a day in his life. He leaned in a little to whisper conspiritorily, " _Really_? Wade? But he's a big ol' softie, and any half-decent person don't do kids, he'd rather freeze to death!"

The kid's eyes drifted to the katanas between them, to the window, back to him.

"Want me to tell you a secret?" He lowered his voice under Wade's range of hearing, saw the half-interested expression on the mask before he looked away. "We have a saying, not so much a saying as an observation, among us underground folk. They say Deadpool has seven sons. There's the Brat, the Boy, Daredevil, Spider-Man, and the Spider. He's only got two kids."

" . . . Two kids. Seven sons. Five names," Miles matched his volume, whispering his little notes like it was a riddle. "No, six sons. There's only one - well, one you, why have two basically the same names for the same person?"

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Wade cracked a freeze pack to put on the kid's bruises. Peter reached for the kid's hands, exposing the insides of his wrists and his own spinnerets as he held Miles's forearms still. His dad started tending to the bruises while he distracted the spiderling.

"Now that you've seen my face and know someplace we consider safe, you're in this whether I like it or not, and you'll only get pulled deeper," Peter said, starting up a quiet, comforting purr. "You have to understand there is a very real and important difference between Spider-Man, the Spider, and who you see right now."

Miles pulled his eyes away from their matching spinnerets.

"Remember what I said about how we try our best not to kill?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles draws in a deep, shuddering breath. His hands have long since gone cold, and Peter knows that means fight or flight kicked in and Miles had ignored it to sit and listen to Peter. Then Miles sucks in another breath and lies through his teeth.
> 
> "Yes," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend reading this chapter slowly, for the effect and to let things sink in. We're really getting into it now :)

The thing Miles has to understand, he says, is that it's easy to kill someone on accident. So, so easy, and when it happens you never forgive yourself for it. You think you knew better and it all could've been avoided if you'd just paid a little more attention or been a little faster or noticed something earlier but it's already too late. 

Sometimes they react faster than their brains can keep up with. Sometimes instinct takes over. When they have a gun to their head or a knife going for their eye, the instinct to survive shoves aside rationality and before they can stop themselves their reaction is to go for the throat.

Sometimes going for the throat with super strength meant broken necks, and sometimes they move too fast to stop in time.

Peter can lift up to ten tons, he explains, proportional strength humans should not be allowed to have. He can level buildings if he puts his weight behind it, and human bones are so much more fragile than buildings. Peter had to train himself not to break his friends' bones or pull doors off their hinges or punch someone through a wall. Sometimes it was a little hard to remember normal people can't get thrown through walls and come out the other side swinging like they can, are nowhere near as durable and strong as they are. He has trained himself to hold back so he doesn't accidentally test how much force it takes to put his hand through someone's skull.

Knowing this, what Miles has to learn to understand is morals aren't as black and white as people make them out to be. They're flexible and more often than not their team toes the line between what people try to define as good and bad. More often than not they walk that line like it's a tightrope and if they lean, even a little bit, to either side they would fall impossibly far with no guarantee there was a safety net at the bottom to save them. 

What he has to understand, is once you're in this there's no out for you, there never is.

People don't retire from this, Miles. They just die. 

People don't care about their safety or their lives. No matter how young or scared they are, no one cares and honestly it's unlikely anyone ever will. Outsiders look at people like them and think of _danger and vengeance and unlawful, unloyal, untrustworthy_ no matter where they go. There is always someone out there who would put a bullet in their brain simply for the fact they exist. And not just because what they do is illegal, no matter the good or the bad or the morals, just because they can't control what they are.

And the morals are so, so important. Make yourself a code, Miles, and stick to it as much as you can, because some days it will be your only saving grace. 

It's not for saving you from bad guys or a courtroom or your family's wrath, but from yourself. It keeps you steady and someday it might be the only thing supporting your sanity, if only holding onto it by a thread. In this job, you need something to save yourself before you start drowning or you seldom survive.

You have to survive. Prepare for every situation you can think of and survive as long as you can, spiderling, because the reality of it is even if they had an out they wouldn't take it. And if they don't do this, if Peter doesn't do this, someone else will try to travel in his footsteps and someone else will die. And he knows, he just knows, neither of them will let that happen if they have any say in the matter.

Now, thr thing about the Spider. The thing about the Spider is that, above all, more important than everything, the Spider's objective and purpose is to survive. 

No matter who or what gets in the way or what anyone's morals are, even Peter's, the Spider survives. It's what the Spider was made to do, born in a horrible situation between a rock and a hard place where decisions not many people would ever agree with were made. 

He has twisted weapons beyond recognition. Thrown chunks of buildings out of his way over peoples' heads. Sat in the dark of his room aching from bruises he's taken for others. Lied through his teeth to his family about where he disappears to. He has twisted peoples' limbs until they popped in ways they shouldn't. Thrown opponents through brick buildings or metal doors with no thought for their limit or shrapnel. Sat in the dark of various living rooms dying from blows he's taken for others. Lied through his teeth with a smile to people lying in back alleys with more hole than anything waist down that they'd be okay.

He goes home every night with wrecked knuckles and sore joints. Some nights red paints his teeth and he's more rainbow bruises than skin. He's pulled countless bullets and a stupid amount of shrapnel from his body, thread a needle through his bloody skin, and stayed awake into the little hours of the morning to clean up puddles of his blood trailing through his home.

This job isn't pretty. It never was and it never will be, no matter how much peoples' minds romanticize it.

The Spider has killed to survive. Spider-Man has killed to defend. Peter has killed to escape. The man sitting across from you has blood on his hands that he can never wash away, no matter how hard he tries.

"Are you willing to go that far?" Peter asks, soft and gentle as he has been throughout his entire time speaking. "Are you willing to die?"

Miles draws in a deep, shuddering breath. His hands have long since gone cold, and Peter knows that means fight or flight kicked in and Miles had ignored it to sit and listen to Peter. Then Miles sucks in another breath and lies through his teeth.

"Yes," he says.

Twelve years old. Lying to a total stranger he watched almost die, even worse almost die _slowly_ , so he'd get to go out and cut his lifespan shorter and shorter every night. 

Twelve. So very clever. So very foolish.

"Don't lie to me because you think that's the answer I want."

The kid startled. His palms came up a fraction, fingertips sticking to Peter's arms. He settled again with a guilty sheen to his eye, lips pressed into a thin, concerned line. He didn't meet Peter's eyes again. They were both silent for a long moment.

"No," he finally whispered, "I'm not."

He sounded like he was ashamed of that fact. An emotion he has come to be very familiar with in the years he's hidden behind a mask, part guilt and part anger and a sliver of shame himself, twines itself around his heart.

"Good."

Miles glanced up at him for the barest moment and quickly looked away. Quietly, he asked, "Good?"

"Yes."

"But I - I need to do this. I should be okay with doing whatever's necessary. I should be more than willing. Isn't that what I'm supposed to be able to do?"

"Not at all."

"Why not?"

"Because no matter what anyone says or thinks, all of this - " Peter reached with the Sense, felt the brush of the Spider in Miles reach back " - you're still just a kid. You're a person, Miles, you're only human."

"But you're - "

"You and I are not the same. These are your limite, you set them. No one will ever make you cross any line you don't want to, not with this. Not with us."

Miles huffed a sigh. He stared down at the table. "How do you handle all this stuff all the time? How are you still always so - so confident and self assured and, well, like you? You're always so chill and unaffected, but you've crossed the line tons, how far does it go?"

"I don't handle it all the time. I'm terrified, all the time."

The kid stared at him like he had two heads. "What could _you_ possible be scared of?"

Peter had to chuckle at his tone, curious and amazed. "I'm still just a normal person, under all the super strength and sticking to walls. I'm scared of normal stupid things like everyone else. Getting mugged, fires, forgetting to turn in final projects."

Miles looked at him like he had the sun in his hands. He also looked at him like he had just decided to throw it into the sea. 

"Are you willing to go that far, to die?" He asked again.

"No, I'm not," Miles answered honestly. "Are you?"

"I don't know," Peter answered honestly. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Because he almost had. Because those willing to die always would. Because he'd been on the other side of that when Midland Circle fell. Because it scared him.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see."

Miles screwed his face up in discontent at the answer in that way only twelve year olds could. Peter didn't blame him. It was a pretty shit answer.

If the kid noticed how he sidestepped the question of how far it goes, he didn't mention it. They sent him home before he could decide to bring it up again.


End file.
